


Co-operation

by travellinghopefully



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Prompt Fill, Sickfic, hint of smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4964200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon prompt fill - request for a Sam/Malcolm fluffy sickfic. The prompter didn't specify who should be sick, or really, any details at all (hint to future prompters, be specific - or be disappointed!)</p>
<p>I have agonised over this, so many people, especially, @Springburn write the most amazing Sam/Malcolm stories, so I have felt at sea in uncharted territory, terrified of sinking someone's ship </p>
<p>So, we have poorly Sam (very poorly Sam) and Malcolm taking care of her.</p>
<p>It is complete, but it sort of fades to black - I could, possibly be persuaded to have an epilogue, maybe.....</p>
<p>Rated for language (obviously)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“SAM!”

Fucking Tom at the Treasury, he wasn’t sure he could take a leak out of his own cock without help. 

One simple fucking policy leak, that was all he had to do and he failed, failed fucking spectacularly. There were already memes popping up of the fuck up, fucking memes. It used to be the worst you had to fear was a stand up comedian and a savage political cartoonist. He missed Spitting Image. If some cunt can fuck something up, that cunt will pick the worst possible time to fucking fuck up, because that cunt’s a cunt. 

True yesterday, true today, true tomorrow. 

The way things looked they were going to have to kill the bill (no, don’t go there, even if everything was less believable than a Quentin Tarantino plot, don’t go there) rather than leave it lurching around like a fucking art school zombie for the next six months. Anything they said in connection to the leak looked like they were reacting. Fuck, one simple leak. He should have had his niece do it, she was 3, she wouldn’t fuck up like Tom had. One simple piece of paper, left where a hack could see it – and he left the wrong piece of paper. Malcolm pondered if he’d used the real one to make a paper boat on children’s tv – so far, that had been the only governmental success of the week. Fucking useless, fucking cunt.

“SAM!”

Fuck, it was too fucking early, even for Sam. Malcolm walked over to the coffee pot in the hope that it had spontaneously filled, it hadn’t. He picked up and brutally dismembered a Satsuma and then threw it at the wall. It splattered in a satisfying way, if only it could be so easy to deal with Tom. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to remember what day it was and the last time he’d had a night’s sleep in his own bed. He actually wasn’t sure. 

He rummaged in the fridge that by some miracle Sam kept stocked and free from the random petty theft that proliferated throughout the building. The prospect of him ripping the balls off anyone who took his chocolate and mounting the resulting trophy and hanging them from the mirror in his car was probably a sufficient deterrent. He breakfasted on chocolate and a couple of cans of energy drink – something better would probably turn up later, it would do for now. 

No fucking point in phoning Tom yet, he would get any less sense out of him now than he would normally. Wrenching his tie off, he made the most of office facilities, showering, shaving and changing into a fresh clothes. He had just reached the back of his door in search of a fresh shirt when Sam arrived, pastries and coffee in one hand and a bag of dry cleaning in the other.

She took one look at him, his belt undone, still mostly undressed, and handed him a shirt. She didn’t raise her eyebrows. She was just about used to this now, she didn’t comment, she didn’t blush. She did gesture at the coffee and pastries and say, “breakfast.”

“Thank you love, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

That would probably be his last pleasant exchange of the day.

Fastening his shirt, tucking it in, finding a tie, he got Sam to get Tom on the phone. Warning to keep the decks clear, anyone else who wandered into his line of fire this morning was going to be classified as collateral damage. There again, he could warm up on anyone who wandered by, chew the arm or leg off a junior minister as a starter. He smiled savagely.

..............................................................................

“WHAT!”

Sam stood there, blinking at him. Fucking hell, never shout at Sam, what the fuck was wrong with him, never fucking shout at Sam.

“Sit down. Go on, sit down.” 

Trying to sound less angry, trying not to sound like a deranged polar bear.

He shut the door, made a cup of tea, handed her the tea, handed her a plate of biscuits. Please, let it be something minor, please let that fucking twat Nicholson have declared war on Azerbaijan over breakfast. Please, don’t let anything be wrong.

“Fucking sorry love, those twats, they get to me sometimes. I should never take it out on you.”

Fuck, she still hadn’t said anything. He moved papers around on his desk. He re-arranged the satsumas into a pyramid.

“What the fuck is it? Did the PM tell the Queen to suck his cock?”

She laughed, thank fuck for that. If she was laughing it wasn’t that bad. What was it? She looked embarrassed, nothing fazed Sam, nothing ever fucking fazed Sam, she worked for him. If there was a nuclear holocaust, Sam would be the calm efficient one.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Fuck yes, you don’t have to ask. What is it? Sorry, I’m an angry bastard, you know that, but really, all bark, no bite, you can ask anything.”

State the fucking obvious Tucker. And she could, not that he’d admit that, or tell her that, except he just had. What was fucking wrong with him? And he would bite, just not Sam.

“Could you do me a favour? I hate to ask, but please?”

He stopped himself, just as the word “anything” was about to cross his lips again.

“Aye, love.”

Smooth, Tucker, fucking smooth. Eejit, fucking eejit. His interior monologue was helping nothing.

“My parents are going away, the Caribbean for a month. I was wondering, if, it was ok, and it wasn’t a bother, could I put you down as an emergency contact?”

He sometimes forgot she was more upper crust than Nicholson. Probably nobility, but she never mentioned it, she was never snooty or stand offish or judgemental. He tried not to wince at the number of times he had used the epithet “poxbridge twats” in her hearing. She’d been to Cambridge, she had a first, and not in fucking useless, fucking political science. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was, but he knew it was what he’d call a “proper” subject.

He hadn’t answered her. He realised she was looking at him.

“It doesn’t matter, sorry I asked, really, I didn’t mean to interrupt you with something so trivial.”

She stood up, put down the cup and saucer, and then picked it up to tidy it away.

He almost put his hand on her arm, but he let it drop back, made it into a something or nothing gesture.

“No, no, its fine, really, add me. You have every number, every address I could ever be found at. Normally you have a better idea of where I am than I do. Not a problem, really.”

Fuck it, he was fucking babbling.

She smiled, she thanked him. He felt a complete arse. How could someone be grateful for something so trivial? He had had his suspicion that her family were total cunts to her, and he thought it again now. How did someone reach a point when they were thankful when someone was simply polite? There again, him being polite could confuse the fuck out of anyone.


	2. Brussels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm goes to Brussels
> 
> (I really suck at titles and summaries)

His phone was always on. It didn’t matter where he was. He’d been thrown out of three theatres, he counted that as plus, and the last time at the cinema, with his nephew and niece, someone was going to punch him, till they’d seen the mad glint in his eye, backed off, backed down. He always had his phone on.

Fucking Brussels.

He’d managed to get his stints at Chequers down to once a month. Jamie did two weekends and some other useless, spotty oik did the other weekend – they had to be trained up somehow. Retirement wasn’t a prospect or even an option, whether he could afford it or not, but he wasn’t going to be found fucking dead at his fucking desk. At the moment he was doing a good impersonation of a living corpse, not enough sleep, a truly atrocious diet (Sam kept him in fruit, cheese, biscuits, good coffee and Curly Wurlys – but the only food he ate most days was what she placed in front of him), don’t get him started about exercise, at least he drank far less than anyone realised (he was exceptionally good at keeping an expensive glass filled with an inch of apple juice). However he felt, whatever he did, he couldn’t palm Brussels off on anyone else.

Foreign soil viewed as a licence to do anything with anyone – as if social media and the press didn’t exist, as if every toddler didn’t have an iphone and know how to use it. Three days of trying to persuade every minister to keep their cock in their trousers, or knickers on, or both. Their hands out of everyone else’s pants, their tongues not down anyone’s throats. And preferably not speak, to anyone, at all. If he could get them to do that, to do absolutely nothing, preferably stay in their hotel rooms (on their own, away from the mini bar, the phone, and truly questionable euro porn), the damage they could inflict on policy would be minimal – otherwise a perfect fucking storm of shit.

How could he work with a team of people who were so monumentally useless? He pondered his theory that the qualification for politics was that you ceased to be a functioning human being and had all common sense and scintilla of intellect neutered. He’d gladly cut the cocks and balls off the lot of them, but he could really use them to be able to think for themselves – calmly, rationally. Fuck it, he would settle for them being able to string a sentence together without him having to write it for them and teach it to them. His auntie’s parrot was better at speeches than any one of them. Fucking useless, fucking cunts.

He was backed against the wall of a reception room in a gathering for European business leaders, to which more than one MP had insisted on attending. Then the PM had said he must be there too, and then Baldycock had insisted that it was the perfect opportunity for him to network, for him to make connections, Malcolm wanted to shove his ideas so far up his arse that he really would see blue skies. Malcolm’s fist was close to crushing the expensive glass tumbler that he held in his hand. He would like nothing better than to down the scotch the glass held – but it was only for show. If he got everyone out of here without a diplomatic incident he could drink later, one drink, maybe, before looking at the mess the media would make of everything. And he hadn’t had anything to eat, again, going over key details with the PM, one, last, time. If it wasn’t deeply unfunny, or worse, probably true, he would stake his pay on the man having early onset dementia.

He grimaced at the sound of crimplened thighs rubbing against each other as one particularly unbecoming Euro MP walked past him. He balked further as he realised he could see every detail of the butterfly thong the woman wore. Every wisp of lace, the string ties, all perfectly visible through the pale, thin fabric. Arousing, or at least attractive on someone younger, questionable if not sickening on someone in their late 60s who was at least 40lbs overweight. Some people he should never have to imagine naked, perma tanned, or have to contemplate their underwear. Some things he didn’t even want to have to imagine. No amount of pay made certain aspects of his job remotely bearable. He tried desperately to shift thoughts of chafing from his mind.

His one comfort, his one solace was that he always took Sam to dinner on the last night, after everyone else had gone home. Ostensibly as a thank you for her hard work, no, not ostensibly, no, a thank you was all that it was. Sam worked incredibly hard under impossible conditions and she made his job, if not bearable, at least tolerable. 

He didn’t allow himself to spend any time thinking about how much he enjoyed the time he spent with Sam. He was her boss, and he was 20 years her senior and he wasn’t thinking about this, but he would miss taking her to dinner. Some college reunion, and she had, had it in the diary for more than 8 months, and she had still asked him if it was ok if she went. He never begrudged her time off, she took far less than she should and infinitely less than she was entitled to. She started early, left late, nothing ever too much trouble or too much bother. She never complained, ever. 

He fucking missed her.

Oh for fuck’s sake. Surely the daft cunt knew the bit of skirt was a hack? Time to intercept. He steered the PM towards someone or other and gave the journalist the stare of death. At least she had the wisdom to blanch and leave. It was comforting to know his touch wasn’t slipping.

He felt one phone begin to vibrate in his pocket. He couldn’t not check it. He didn’t recognise the number and no name came up on the display – a London number though, so he answered it.

“Tucker.”

He had to slow the caller down and make them start again, he wasn’t following what they were saying at all. He all but dropped the phone as he realised it was a doctor, calling to tell him Sam was in hospital, a medical emergency, how soon could he get there?

He left the reception, his passport in his jacket pocket along with his credit card. That was all he needed. He took a taxi to the airport and was on the first flight, he didn’t consider the price of the ticket for the length of the flight (Easyjet £54, his flight £2004), he didn’t think about being in first class for a flight that took longer to take off and land than it spent in the air. He managed not to tell the stewardess exactly what she could do with the complimentary champagne. The taxi ride at the other end would take far, far too long – he took the tube.

He did phone Jamie. 

He turned off his phones.

2 ½ hours after receiving the call, he walked into the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the thong - that was written from life - a church coffee morning - I am still traumatised


	3. Not nurse Tucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm takes care of Sam - a few slightly graphic hospital bits, just saying, just in case you are squeamish....  
> Fluff and angst

The next few days were ones that ever after, he couldn’t quite fully account for. He knew what happened during them, he knew the eventual outcome, but the details were both horrifyingly pin sharp and utterly confused.

He hated hospitals. He’d always hated hospitals. The smell made his skin crawl.

He felt fucking helpless.

Sam hadn’t died, that was what he kept telling himself when he woke up late at night, drenched in sweat, reliving the nightmare. Sam was fine.

It had been fucking touch and go. Appendicitis, such a simple thing. Her appendix had ruptured, the resulting infection had done its best to kill her.

He’d pulled all the embassy contacts he knew and been in touch with her family. They had declined to return from their holiday, what would be the point? He never told her he’d spoken to them.

He sat by her beside. He held her hand. He terrorised any member of staff who tried to get him to move, to take a break, to get a breath of fresh air. What the fuck use did he have for fresh air – and this was London – the air was never fucking fresh.

After 3 days the drugs began to win the battle against the infection and she started to come round. He didn’t let go of her hand. 

When her eyes opened, she’d looked up at him, and told him she loved him. He wasn’t quite sure what happened to his heart at that moment. He decided he would never refer to what she said, it was obviously just the drugs. At least she hadn’t called him Julius.

He did allow his lips to brush her forehead just once, before sitting down and quietly offering words of comfort and encouragement. Nothing that could be misconstrued.

When she fell into a natural sleep, he did very briefly go home, to shower and change, to delete every message on his phone and then resume his place at her bed side. He had contacted HR on her behalf, he didn’t give a fuck where they thought he was.

Flowers arrived for her, everyone sent flowers, he hadn’t even thought about flowers. Sam was the one who sent flowers for him.

She looked so young, so fragile, lying in the bed. The machines beeping, the drip in her arm. Her skin so pale. He allowed his fingers to gently push her hair back behind her ears.

The doctors assured him she would be just fine. There would be no lasting damage. Would there be someone to take care of her once she was home? Fuck. He was many things, but he was definitely not a nurse.

He took the hospitals recommendation of an agency that was meant to provide impeccable health care. He didn’t even blink at the astonishing cost.

He tried not to think too much about the details the doctors had felt compelled to share with him, about the incision, the drain, the gauze packing, the subsequent scar. He did pay attention to the predicted recovery time. He mostly ignored what they said about avoiding heavy lifting and strenuous activity, and focused on 4-6 weeks for full recovery. He decided unilaterally that she wouldn’t have to lift a finger until at least 6 weeks were up. Of course her family would have returned before then, but he would allow Sam to make any decision she pleased nearer the time.

He had his bedroom (it was the one with en-suite) equipped with every possible convenience before he had her moved home by private ambulance. He didn’t mention setting up care within her own home – she had put him down as an emergency contact and he took those duties very seriously. He couldn’t imagine letting her out of his sight.

He did not consider how much he cared for her and how much she meant to him. He told no one that he woke up almost screaming the first night he slept. He didn’t tell anyone what he dreamed. After that, he sat in a chair beside her – relieving the nurse after Sam had fallen asleep. She didn’t need to know he felt compelled to watch over her.

The fifth night home, the incision burst. 

Malcolm tried not to think about the blood.

There was a terrifying return journey to the hospital.

She was fine, he kept reminding himself she was fine. Her recovery would take a little longer. But she was fine.

She smiled at him again, when she woke and found him beside her. He had to concentrate with every fibre of his being not to crush her hand with his.

He had absolutely no idea what any MP did for over two weeks – he didn’t care. Jamie wisely said absolutely nothing.

Somehow Malcolm maintained Sam’s privacy, and the most anyone knew was that she was receiving private nursing care. 

Once she was purely recuperating, a stream of her friends traipsed in and out of his house. He found himself surprisingly unconcerned; none of them were connected with work. He may even have baked.

..............................

She woke up. Malcolm was asleep beside her, on top of the covers, fully dressed, shoes still on, glasses at a slight angle. A fresh tray of food rested on the bed side table. All of the drinks were replenished – every used glass and piece of crockery and cutlery, neatly replaced. There was a vase of fresh flowers. 

Looking at him, sleeping peacefully, he looked years younger. God knows what time he’d come in, and it was way past the time he would have normally dragged himself back. There was no way on earth she was going to wake him – she couldn’t imagine he was wholly comfortable, but she’d seen him sleep in far worse positions. As best as she was able, she folded the top half of the quilt over him. She would have loved to have turned over and nestled into him. Feeling his warmth, the subtle smell of cologne, the hint of just him. She ran through a few of Malcolm’s choicest expletives that she couldn’t turn on her side, couldn’t fulfil her fantasy of running her hands through his hair, have the chance to kiss his stress away, take it further, if she admitted it, much, much further. 

She would make sure to pretend to be asleep when he finally woke.

In love with her boss, the oldest cliché, it was like a Richard Curtis movie, far more swearing, but still. Malcolm was astonishingly old fashioned and a true gentleman when it came down to it (although several MPs would argue that point). He’d consider any advances she made now as him taking advantage of her. Damn man. She’d get him to kiss her again, somehow. She hadn’t told him she remembered perfectly telling him she loved him, and the feel of his lips against her skin.

She stayed in his home far longer than she strictly needed to, postponing her return home as long as possible. Enjoying every moment she spent with Malcolm. 

Spending time with him out of the office was a revelation. He was everything she imagined he might be, and far more. His humour was gentle, his manners impeccable and his cooking simply astonishing. She couldn’t believe the courtesy he extended to her friends, some of whom she would have predicted would have pushed Malcolm’s ever last button.

She truly regretted her eventual return home and her subsequent return to work. Work Malcolm simply wasn’t the same. 

The easy camaraderie between them fell away to be replaced by their normal, formal routine.

.................................

Malcolm refused to think how desperately he missed Sam in his home.


	4. Decorating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Malcolm redecorates, Sam comes to visit
> 
> There is just a little fluffy smut....
> 
> (I have to get better at summaries)

Several weeks after she had returned to her own home she asked him if he had managed to sort out his room. Had he replaced the bed? The mattress was beyond redemption so he might as well get a new bed, and what about decorating. He hadn’t given it a thought. He didn’t admit that he didn’t want to imagine the bed without her.

He hadn’t managed to maintain the fiction that it was the guest room when he kept getting his suits and shirts from the wardrobe. She had teased him about that, before they’d returned to work. There wasn’t much teasing or humour now.

Sam was consequently rather surprised some weeks later to be invited round to see the redecoration and maybe have a bite to eat. Malcolm didn’t say dinner – but that was what he meant. She tried not to sound too eager when she agreed.

...................................................

“Well, what do you think?”

Sam hadn’t really expected to be given a tour of Malcolm’s newly refurbished bedroom. Well she supposed it was appropriate, well possibly, seeing as she had really rather destroyed the previous one.

The decoration was tasteful, although a little plain, a little austere, it needed a few personal touches. She hoped he would put up a few of the pictures he had from his nephews and nieces that he had framed. Maybe some photographs. That would make it look less like a high end hotel chain. She knew no other single man who was this tidy.

“So, have you tried it out?” What possessed her to say it like that, honestly.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows, and she punched him, just gently and gave the faintest of glares.

“You know, traditionally?” Oh for crying out loud, that wasn’t any better.

Malcolm just stared, and blinked – for once, speechless.

“You know, like in the adverts, where they throw themselves backwards like a holidaying starfish, all arms and legs and bounce up and down.”

He did that thing with pursed lips, his hand covering his mouth, and she realised he was trying desperately not to laugh.

She floundered on.

“Or jump up and down on it, like a toddler, really, you have to try it out.” 

That was a better sentence, wasn’t it? His eyes were still laughing, but he had pulled the rest of his face into its normal semi scowl. She preferred him laughing.

Oh well, what could possibly go wrong? 

Sam pushed Malcolm backwards, he landed on the bed. Somehow his hand was on Sam’s arm and he pulled her down with him. She landed on him with a soft oooph.

He began to apologise and scramble backwards frantically. Enough of her was lying over him to impede his progress. Before he could get away, Sam wrapped his tie securely round her fist and pulled him towards her. She kissed him. 

He didn’t react. 

Damn. 

He didn’t pull away either. 

OK. 

Sam kissed him again, just the corner of his mouth, then his bottom lip, then his cheek.

Then he started to apologise. Why was he apologising, she was kissing him? Apologising had no place in kissing.

Sam, very firmly, using language she knew he would understand, told him, categorically, to shut up. 

She did not release the hold on his tie, but she did move her free hand to behind his head, to run her fingers gently through his hair, angle him slightly so she could kiss him more easily. She really hoped that quite quickly his brain would opt out of the equation and allow his body to kiss her back. Placing her lips just below his ear, she allowed the very tip of her tongue to trace a heart. He wouldn’t know that, but she did, and it made her smile.

Kissing down his throat, she unfastened his collar and loosened his tie. His arms remained resolutely flung out to the side, his eyes staring fixedly at the ceiling. A girl could be seriously discouraged. 

Sam nipped and sucked a path along his collar bone and finally she was rewarded with what she could only categorise as a whimper.

She looked up at Malcolm and found him gazing at her with wonder and utter disbelief.

“Do I have to tell you to shut up again?”

“No Sam. Really? You want this?”

He stuttered – the great, mighty and fearless Malcolm Tucker stuttered.

“You want....me?”

“Yes, you great, daft lump. I want you.”

Still, his arms remained still, but she could see his synapses finally beginning to fire.

“Fucking, fuck me.”

“That was my general plan and idea – but my understanding is, that it generally works far better if both parties co-operate and participate.”

Never had part of a speech Malcolm had written been put to better use. He wholeheartedly concurred with Sam’s proposal.

Finally realising that he had the woman of his dreams in his bed, lying on top of him, kissing him, Malcolm moved his arms. One he used to wrap round her hips and pull her more securely against him – the other he brought up to her face, his hand carefully and reverently pushing strands of hair back from her face. He stared deeply into her eyes, his gaze still questioning.

Deciding that he was still thinking entirely too much for her liking Sam resumed kissing him. Certainly the least onerous task that she had performed in all of her years as Malcolm’s PA.

Finally he was kissing her. Messily, hungrily, their teeth and noses bumping. But it wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t uncomfortable, they were breathless, and both giggling. Not a sound she had ever expected to hear, but one that was truly delightful. Then they were resting forehead to forehead, gasping for breath, as giddy as teenagers.

“You really want this?”

And she saw the insecurity in him, the longing. The man for whom there was nothing other than work – desperate, for her.

“Yes, Malcolm.”

She kissed him again, and would keep kissing him and keep telling him for as long as it took for him to believe her.

He moved from under her and she groaned with frustration and disappointment. Her grip on his tie was still secure and as he attempted to back away he found himself anchored in place, staring at her hand on his tie. He moved to undo it.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sam demanded.

“Well my memory is a little hazy on these things, but my general understanding is, that matters such as these, tend to progress more smoothly and with greater enjoyment, if there are fewer clothes.” Malcolm allowed himself just the slightest smirk.

“I was planning to undress and offer whatever assistance you considered appropriate to complete the same task.”

She was going to hit him. Of all the occasions to choose to be polite, civilised and thoroughly well mannered, this was not the time. Then she looked at him more closely, and realised he was trying very hard not to laugh – his eyes crinkling and twinkling, the corner of his mouth twitching. He was actually fucking teasing her.

“Mr Tucker I am only going to tell you once, this is definitely not the type of teasing I had in mind.”

He cocked his head to one side and gave her his most dazzling smile. “No darling?”

“NO!” and she placed her hand where he absolutely couldn’t fail to mistake her meaning. She was pleased in equal measure by what she could feel and by his reaction - his eyes fluttered closed and he swallowed thickly. He stifled a moan as her hand continued to move and he was compelled to capture her hand between both of his to stop her.

“Enough teasing.” 

He moved back, stood up and pulled her upright with him.

His arms wrapped round her.

They did not eat dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @Iam-devious-cunning-ambitious who helped with the fluff, but is in no way responsible for any mistakes - thank you, and for leading the cheers for this fic.
> 
> No, I haven't abandoned any stories, and yes, I am still working through the other prompts
> 
> As always, if you hated this, tell me, if you loved this, tell me, if you really liked this, please share.
> 
> And, as ever and for always, every reader makes me unbelievably glad - thank you.
> 
> And (I have to stop starting sentences with and) - the kind words and the feedback and the general loveliness has been just wonderful - thank you.


End file.
